The sufferers were well cared for, as well at least as circumstances permitted. A liberal allowance was made for their support by their own government; and the Mayor of Versailles interested himself so warmly in their welfare, that the Czar afterwards wrote him an autograph letter of thanks.
Madame de Talmont and Clémence passed between long rows of pallets, distributing their little gifts, which were most thankfully received, especially the oranges, of which the Russians were excessively fond. They tried to show their gratitude by looks and signs; and one poor fellow, remembering a word which is the same in most languages and full of blessing in all, brought tears to the sad eyes of Clémence by looking up and murmuring, “Christohs;” as though he would have said, “We are one in Him.”
They came at last to the ward where the wounded officers lay. Their little store was long since exhausted; and even had it been otherwise, they would have thought the common soldiers greater objects of compassion. So they passed on rather quickly, and without paying much heed to the pale but interested faces which were raised from many a pillow to gaze at the gentle, sweet-looking ladies, the very sight of whom seemed to do the poor sufferers good.
At length one face arrested the eye of Madame de Talmont, and she could not but pause for another look. It was a young and handsome face, with a burning spot on either cheek, and a contraction of the brows that told the story of feverish pain. Yet, in spite of weariness and suffering, the eyes were absolutely beaming with joy, and a happy, satisfied smile played over the parted lips.
She stood for a moment by the side of the invalid. “My young friend,” she said kindly, “you seem to be in pain; and yet you look happy.”
“Yes, madame, I am indeed happy,” answered Ivan Pojarsky, who had just been receiving a visit from his friend Tolstoi. “How can I help it? Yesterday the Czar entered Paris in triumph.”
He spoke French as correctly and with almost as pure an accent as Madame de Talmont herself. She was touched and interested by his words. “But,” she asked, “do you not feel it hard to be lying here, helpless and suffering, while your Emperor and your companions in arms enjoy their triumph?”
“Oh no, madame,” he said with animation; “I cannot think of that. Nor could you, if you belonged to my Czar. If you had seen the flames of Moscow; had heard the thunder when the mines exploded that laid half our Kremlin in ruins; had witnessed the faith and courage that upheld him then, had watched the long and weary conflict he has waged from that hour until now—patient, wise, self-sacrificing, undaunted[50],—you would rejoice for him in the very depths of your heart that the goal is won at last, that he stands a conqueror in the midst of Paris, and possesses the gate of his enemies!” In his eagerness he half raised himself, his eyes sparkled, and his whole face flushed with excitement.
“Gently, gently, my poor young friend,” said Madame de Talmont in a tone of almost motherly tenderness. “I fear you will hurt yourself.”
“Oh no, madame;”—but even as he spoke his colour changed rapidly, and his lip quivered with the pain he tried to hide.